Stories like the following text. It's a strange story where I merge my brain and my daily experiences together, sometimes as a starting point for the next painting.
I write in Dutch, but since this website is in English, I have translated this story. For more written texts, you can always send me an email: saradeechte@gmail.com
05.03 The tablescape
On the table, from right to left,
a line-up of everyday objects stands.On the right side, a bag of protein stands tall, resembling a curved figure draped in a gray powder cape. Its mysterious aura is heightened by my suspicion of a mustache, though it stubbornly faces away from me, like a secret unwilling to be revealed.
Next to it, the setting spray bottle promises not only the key to happiness but also the transformation of ordinary objects into glittering disco balls. My sister whispered to me that this spray held the secret to ultimate happiness, but I'm starting to doubt her advice. The glitter, possessing disco ball molecules, has settled at the bottom of the bottle, requiring immense force from squeezing hands and shaking arms to return to those powerful realms. Perhaps she will seek advice from 'bag of protein', which also endures daily Groningen earthquakes in a tunnel of unreality. By the way, 'protein' is getting slimmer and slimmer lately; I'm starting to worry...
And then there's Claudia, the vase with a bouquet of happily sad flowers. Its contents radiate a mix of yellow and pink emotions, like a colorful symphony of feelings waiting to be discovered. These flowers, from another era of memories, beg for my attention and demand to be captured in detail, just like the boys cycling down the street in an organized parade. It's a pity for Claudia that she can only enjoy her beloved bouquets for so long; she always holds them tightly with her beautiful slender neck, but after about three days, her bouquets start to wilt. Brief relationships, until death do they part.
Behind the laptop screen, a landscape of olives slowly reveals itself, like a slow dance through the slippery substance of olive oil. It's a play unfolding before my eyes, while Paul watches the glass and Marit gazes anxiously at the hummus, their eyes fixed on the menacing knife threatening to slip into the slippery oil.
Outside the café, the boys gather to smoke, their presence enhancing the sense of abandonment permeating the table world. And just when I think the sadness can't get any worse, the ice cube in the glass of oat milk starts making a deafening noise, like an orchestra of frustration emerging from beneath the carpet.
Through the phone, I hear my sister's voice being drowned out by the virus called frustration, which occasionally rears its head from the depths of everyday life. I prepare to face the sorrow on the table, knowing that life goes on when the boys come back inside.
12.03 The lost ring
A beautiful day greeted me,
The sun shone brightly, I was greeted by the hissing sound of diet cola dancing over the ice cubes, and the tempting bubbles that increased my thirst. I want to tell you where I stood yesterday. With the washing machine ticking beside me.
I found myself in a club, surrounded by people embracing each other in a world of apparent connectivity. But the shiny exterior hid a raw reality I hadn't expected. Upon entering, I was greeted by a grim entrance, where coats hung, you could feel the sweat that preferred to be carried along rather than left behind. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and stale beer, and the floor seemed to groan under a layer of 2 centimeters of humidity, like a silent witness of decay. The people showed unexpected kindness, perhaps driven by the invisible forces of social norms.
The kindness of the people in the club was striking; there seemed to be an unspoken social control that ensured nobody misbehaved. Arguing simply didn't seem an option here, as if the atmosphere was soaked with peaceful coexistence. This realization was further reinforced when someone lost their ring and suddenly three strangers shot out of the shadows towards us. They said nothing, but their gestures of helpfulness were clear and heartwarming. In a whispering tone, they asked us if we wanted to go up to the roof.
And so our adventure began, from the fourth floor, through winding corridors and deserted dance floors imbued with the aroma of stale beer. Everywhere I looked, I saw reusable plastic cups serving as silent witnesses of past parties, and every tap I encountered seemed to have turned into a beer tap. Eventually, we reached the emergency exit, and as we stepped outside, we were greeted by a breathtaking view over a pavilion of tables.
It was a surreal sight; towers of reusable plastic beer glasses rose up as remnants of a battle between different 'islands' of tables. Some towers were impressively tall, while others had already collapsed under their own weight. As I stood there, taking in the spectacle, it felt like I was in another world, where I didn't really belong and where the rules of ordinary life didn't apply.
The contrast between the clean, inviting exterior of the club and its dark, neglected interior was striking. It reminded me of human nature itself; on the outside, we sometimes appear beautiful and perfect, but inside, we can hide flaws and darkness. Perhaps the club is a metaphor for human existence, where we are often shaped by our surroundings and experiences, both the beautiful and the ugly.
︎ Sometimes I post small pieces of stories Threads.